


Nothing

by Imboredshootthewall



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Death, Depression, Drama, Fear, Friendship, Grave, Love, Loyalty, M/M, Pain, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 19:07:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imboredshootthewall/pseuds/Imboredshootthewall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is facing a serious depression, as his dearest friend and the most important person in his life, Sherlock Holmes, is dead. His life has become nothing more but a repetitive cycle of daily rituals. Nothing ever happens to him. Until something breaks his routine...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jamesraoulsilva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamesraoulsilva/gifts).



> post-Reichenbach, pre season 3.

Get up. Make coffee. Read the papers. Check the laptop. Watch crap TV. Order cheap take-out food. Go to bed. Get up. That is all there is. There is nothing to do. Nothing to set his mind to. Nothing to live for.  
Someone changed his life once. But that is the thing with life changing experiences: they fade away. One day, sooner rather than later, you will be stuck with the same meaningless life you have always lived. All happiness is temporary.

“Nothing ever happens to me.”  
His therapist just keeps repeating mindless words over and over again. His answer remains the same. “Nothing. Nothing ever happens to me.”  
He spends hours absentmindedly staring at his once successful blog. It brings back memories. Memories that seem to increasingly vaporize every time he can bring himself to remember. He resets his blog’s hit counter each day. The number never changes. 0001. He restarted the counter again.

Mrs. Hudson had been so kind to him. She had allowed him to stay at 221B for only half the rent. He could not thank her enough. Mrs. Hudson was the living proof that he was not the only one affected that dreadful day. Mycroft never contacted John again. John could not care less. He knew Mycroft was responsible for Sherlock’s death. It was Molly who had disappointed him. She had cut all communication between her and John.  
In a way, they took care of each other, Mrs. Hudson and John. They needed each other. They were all they had left. 

John got up from behind his laptop. He grabbed his walking cane that was lying next to him on the floor and stumbled towards the door. Mrs. Hudson looked at him and nodded slowly. John left.

John looked at the city. He saw merely streets. People. Shops. Nothing special. He walked. “Bored.” John looked up. “You just solved a case this morning!” - “When’s the next one?”  
The noise of a gunshot lingers through the London streets. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” - “I’m bored! Bored! Bored!”

“Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it’s Christmas.”  
He walked on.  “The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”  And on.  
“Look at you, you’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing.” And on. Until he fell to his knees on the soft green grass. He stretched his hand to the cold black stone. He could feel the outlines which formed the golden capital letters under his fingertips.

“John, what are you doing?” John looked up in shock. “I... wh... what?” The voice. His voice. He saw a slender figure in a long, dark coat. His coat collars were turned up and seemed to match all too perfectly with his pale cheekbones. “You should be at home, helping Mrs. Hudson with her tea.” 

For a moment, John just sat there. Staring, with his mouth wide open. “Your mouth is opened, do you realise that, John?” A small grin. When John looked before him, the grave that had been there a few minutes ago had disappeared. 

The figure kneeled down next to John and looked him in the eyes. “I am so sorry for what I have done to you. And the others.” His face hardened. “I never intended it to be that way. I care about you, John. I have always cared about you.”

John closed his mouth and looked at the man, who could not be, but at the same time, was there. “Please, John, continue with your life. You are the greatest man I know. I have said some hurtful things in the past, but always remember that.” Before John could say anything, Sherlock’s hands wrapped around him. A hug. Sherlock Holmes had just given him a hug. Slowly, Sherlock pulled back his arms. John felt a sudden cold at the spots where Sherlock’s hands had been just seconds ago. 

John opened his eyes. The ceiling stared back at him, while he slowly blinked, disoriented. He suddenly became aware of the sheets which were gently wrapped around his body. He was in his bed, back at 221B. John sighed. It had all been just a dream. 

He got up from his bed and made himself a cup of coffee. He began his daily routine, the same routine he followed for nearly 10 months now. It was all carefully planned. Get up. Make coffee. Read the papers. John turned on his laptop. “Welcome, John!” the screen said. John double-clicked on the Google Chrome icon on his desktop and went straight to his blog. There was nothing. Nothing, because he had not written anything the last few months. John sighed again and went to restart the hit counter. Then he stopped. Something had broken into his routine. It was different. He rested his cursor at the counter. 

0002.


End file.
